


Revenir

by theorchardofbones



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, F/F, Gen, Pre-War, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Reverse Fallout Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Jean Hofstadt — better known by her stage name, Betsy Finch — used to be a star. Yet even now, portraying one of America's biggest household names, she knows she's nothing more than the Nuka-Girl costume they dress her up in each day.Mere days before the Great War, she returns home to Boston to take part in the launch of Nuka-Cola Quantum. Just like everybody else, she has no idea of what's coming.





	Revenir

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for RFOBB 2017, to accompany [this spectacular artwork](https://68.media.tumblr.com/6a708423560c627630b909be76296797/tumblr_opl9pazZDx1wn5svro1_1280.jpg) by [digitalduckie](http://digitalduckie.tumblr.com). My tumblr is over [here](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com), if you're interested!
> 
> I fell a little bit in love with Betsy in the process of writing it. Sorry, not sorry.

_October 21, 2077_

‘Jean Elizabeth Hofstadt, as I live and breathe!’

Betsy winces. She hasn’t heard that name in a while.

The bagel, buttered and already on its way to being devoured, will have to wait; she sets it aside and quickly wipes the grease from her fingers with the chintzy little napkins provided by the coffeeshop, putting on her very best _How-good-to-see-you_ smile.

She had known when she came back home that the odds would be high of running into somebody she used to know. Somehow she’d deluded herself into thinking she’d managed to get away scot-free with only a couple days left of her trip.

Annie Tatler stands before her, as pretty as the last day they spoke, although now she’s all grown up. The rock on her ring finger is so huge the glint off of it is blinding.

They do the air-kiss, the one Betsy has become so accustomed to in her time in Hollywood. Annie pulls out a seat across from her without being asked.

‘It’s actually Betsy now,’ she begins, but before she can finish Annie cuts across her.

‘Betsy _Finch_ , I know.’ There’s a smile full of teeth so straight and white that Betsy can’t help but wonder if her high school friend has had work done. ‘Your illustrious career hasn’t passed us by, Mrs. Finch.’

Betsy winces again. Her hand, devoid of the gold band that used to have a home there, slips into her lap beneath the table.

‘It’s _Ms._ now,’ she says. ‘Since the divorce.’

She sees the look flash across Annie’s face, the one she’s been hoping to avoid. Betsy kept her married name after splitting from Henry — it’s her stage name now, after all — but it has caused a handful of embarrassing questions in the time since.

‘Oh, of course,’ Annie says. She reaches across the table to Betsy’s right hand and pats it delicately. ‘I thought I’d heard something about that. Poor dear.’

Their conversation lapses into an awkward silence, and for a single, shining moment Betsy hopes Annie will take it as her cue to leave. She does not.

‘I thought you were living in Tinseltown?’ Annie says. ‘What brings you back home? Don’t tell me you’re moving here again.’

‘Nothing like that,’ Betsy says. She eyes the half-eaten bagel longingly; wonders if it would be rude to finish it while they talk. ‘I’m just here for a couple weeks. For work. I’m Nuka-Girl.’

She expects the glint of recognition in Annie’s eyes, but it never comes. By now most would have begun to hum a familiar jingle, or recite the Nuka-Cola slogan. Instead Annie looks at her blankly.

‘Is that a… mascot? You think I’d know these things being married to Nathaniel, but I never pay much attention to sports.’

Betsy disguises a laugh with a cough.

‘No,’ she says gently. ‘It’s for Nuka-Cola. The soda company?’

Annie smiles politely — that blank look is still there. _How can she not have heard of Nuka-Cola?_

‘They’re launching a new line,’ Betsy continues. ‘In a couple days. They wanted Nuka-Girl herself at the theme park to help ring it in.’

Another polite smile, and Betsy can’t help but wonder if Annie’s been living under a rock.

‘Well good for you,’ Annie says. She swats Betsy playfully across the arm. ‘Still working, at your age. All the other girls have settled down, had kids… Not Jean Hofstadt!’

Betsy feels heat prickle at her cheeks, at her neck. As if just realizing the time, she makes a show of checking her watch and stands up.

‘I’d better run,’ she says hurriedly, gathering up her things. ‘It was lovely to run into you.’

There’s another air-kiss and Betsy attempts a prompt departure, but before she can get very far Annie places a hand on her arm and stops her. She rummages around in her purse awhile before pulling out a business card; she scribbles a number on the back and hands it to Betsy.

‘We should catch up while you’re still in town,’ she says, so bright and cheerful Betsy’s almost convinced she means it. ‘I’ll call the girls.’

Betsy has no plans of taking Annie up on her suggestion, but still she takes a look at the business card; on the face of it is the name Nathaniel Reed and his details, along with a logo of a pair of crimson socks on a navy blue background.

‘Does he play baseball?’ Betsy asks, eyeing the logo uncertainly. She knows it, of course — how could she grow up in Boston without hearing about the Sox? His name, however, is less of a certainty. She’s sure she must have heard it somewhere.

Annie laughs.

‘Oh no, dear. He owns the team.’

* * *

Honey-blonde hair sits windswept, the perfect fusion of disheveled and painstakingly styled. Two dark brows furrow slightly in concentration, but with a soft admonishment — _You’ll give yourself wrinkles, doll_ — they rise back into place. One last swipe of ruby-red lipstick and the look is complete.

Nuka-Girl.

That’s what the plaque on the trailer door says; what’s written on the back of her chair down on the lot. It’s even embroidered on the towels they leave for her in her tiny little shower cubicle each day, soft and fluffy and warm.

They call her Nuka sometimes, for short. She hears it more than her own name.

‘Time for you to go, sweetheart.’

Betsy twists in her seat to look at the stylist but she’s already going, her long black hair fanning in the breeze as she opens the door.

But— 

No, that’s not right. The stylist was a redhead; she remembers staring at the locks so lush and vibrant that she’d been tempted to ask if the color was all natural. It’d seemed rude at the time.

The woman’s gone before Betsy can question her, the door swinging shut behind her.

Betsy turns back to the mirror, but before she can get a look at her reflection her eyes blur over. She tries to blink it away to no avail; her vision starts to cloud so much she can hardly see the lights around her, can barely even pick out the shape of the mirror.

She rubs at her eyes, rubs so hard she knows the makeup that took hours to perfect will all have to be reapplied, and when she opens them again she can finally see.

The face that stares back at her in the mirror is hideous: wrinkled and decayed like a corpse, the eyes glassy and inhuman. When she lifts a hand to her own face she sees the reflection do the same; with a shudder of revulsion she watches her reflection touch fingertips to the hole where the nose should be and, in turn, she feels the hollow there, where her own is supposed to be.

The reflection is smiling now, a big, rotten grin that contorts the mutated face into something worthy of a horror movie.

Betsy opens her mouth wide and— 

She doesn’t know if it’s the sound of her own scream that wakes her, or the trill of the telephone.

Heart in her throat, she swats her hand around on the nightstand until she finds the phone and answers it, lifting the receiver to her ear with shaking fingers.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, crap — did I wake you?’

She takes a slow, deep breath to settle herself. She’s grateful for the sound of Frankie’s voice; it helps her shake free of the last clinging strands of the nightmare.

‘It’s okay,’ she says. She sits up and lifts the cradle into her lap before reaching across to flick the lamp to life. The light stings, makes her eyes water, but it’s better than the darkness. ‘Kinda glad you called when you did. I had the nightmare again.’

She hears Frankie sigh. Two and a half thousand miles and four time zones away, she’s worried about her. It’s more reassuring than Betsy would like to admit.

‘Same thing again?’ Frankie asks. ‘Bets…’

‘I know, I know. Stop watching all the doom and gloom on the news. Got it.’

‘Bets.’

Frankie gives another sigh; this one is less patient. They’ve had this conversation before. 

Betsy twists the cord of the phone around her finger and watches it spring back when she slips free of it. She almost regrets telling Frankie — now she’ll be worrying about her. Frankie is a Grade-A worrier; the last time Betsy had a stomach bug, Frankie spent the weekend doting over her as though she were on her deathbed. She had almost called off work to stay home with her reluctant patient, but Betsy had refused.

‘I think you were there this time,’ she says. She recalls the woman with the black hair — and that little tug of recognition she’d felt. ‘You told me it was time for me to go.’

Frankie doesn’t answer for a while. Betsy worries that she’s upset her; she can picture the little furrow of her brow on the other end of the line.

‘Frankie?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Dandelion wasn’t happy I was ignoring her.’

Betsy smiles, in spite of herself, as she thinks of the cat: of the fluffy, impossibly soft curls of fur on her belly, the brush-like tail that wraps so possessively around the legs of anyone who’ll have her, and her commanding little meow. She misses the little fuzzball almost as much as she misses Frankie.

‘Oh!’

The interjection is so sudden it startles Betsy; she hears a little mew of protest at the end of the line.

‘I forgot why I called,’ Frankie says. ‘Your commercial was on. They aired it right before the promo for this week’s _Ralphie_.’

‘And?’

‘And… you were amazing.’

Betsy feels her cheeks flush. She knows Frankie would say that even if it weren’t true, but she can’t help the little thrum of pleasure that comes with hearing it.

‘You don’t think I looked fat?’

‘ _Bets._ Go back to sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow when it isn’t… What time is it there, anyway?’

Betsy glances at the face of the alarm on the nightstand. She tries to keep the groan of resignation from escaping as she sees the numbers on the readout; it’s a not so subtle reminder that she has to be up in five hours.

‘A little after one,’ she says.

‘Oh.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end. ‘I’m sorry, Bets. Call me tomorrow when you’re done. And good luck.’

‘Thanks, Frankie. I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

She sits awake awhile after the call disconnects, the cradle of the telephone still nestled in her lap. She flies back Saturday night, after the Quantum launch, but she wishes she were going home _now_. Two days and she’s had enough — enough of Boston, enough of Nuka-Cola, enough of that damned skimpy outfit they make her squeeze into.

She falls asleep curled up with the cradle of the phone; in her dreams it’s Dandelion, and instead of the lemon-fresh scent of the laundry soap on the sheets it’s Frankie’s perfume, sweet and warm and familiar.

* * *

She still remembers her first audition.

In an act of childish defiance several days earlier, she had chopped off so much of her long, blonde hair that her mother hadn’t been able to tie it back the way she had wanted to. Instead Betsy’s hair had gone into rollers, and when the look was done she looked much older than her fourteen years.

The casting director had hired her on the spot; had barely needed to see her audition before he knew she was the one.

‘She’s got the look,’ he had said.

She heard that all the time — _the look_ — from that day right through her formative years. Hollywood had been so damned sure that she would grow up to be a star. If she’d ever had any other dreams, they never stood a chance.

She was nineteen when she met Henry; he had been an exec on her first movie. She had been terrible, playing a part written for a woman — not a stubborn, stuck up kid, like her. But they had all lapped it up at the studio, showering her with praise.

Henry had been the only one who wasn’t impressed. He told her she had potential, but she’d never really make it big unless she learned to act.

‘You’re beautiful, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘You could even give Marilyn a run for her money. But you’ll learn pretty soon that’ll only get you so far.’

He had given her a card for an acting tutor; when she had complained that she didn’t have the money, he’d said the studio would foot the bill.

‘We know a good investment when we see one,’ he had said.

They were married three years later: she was twenty-two, he was thirty-eight.

They never had kids — thank _God_. From the day they were married they were bickering, whether it was money or work or the long hours he spent wining and dining with the Hollywood elite. He told her so often that it was all a part of the job that she could parrot back his words before he even said them.

They stayed together until she was twenty-nine. Seven long, awful years — but they were fruitful. For all she grew to resent Henry, he made sure she made the most of her talent. From the love interest in a noir detective movie to the lead in a thrilling drama, she landed every role she went for. It got so that she didn’t know if they were hiring her because she was perfect for the part, or because she was _Betsy Finch_.

Then Frankie had come along. She was a matte painter for Henry’s studio and they never would have run into each other if Betsy hadn’t gone to sneak a cigarette out back during the wrap party for her latest movie.

Frankie had already been outside, her long black hair scooped over one shoulder. She had offered Betsy a light, complimented her designer dress and… Well, the rest was history.

She’s been thinking about it a lot lately — how they met, by chance. The irony of it all is that if Henry hadn’t insisted the studio give Betsy the part, they never would have crossed paths. Maybe she would still be married to Henry even now, miserable and bitter.

The stylist this time is bad-tempered. It’s obvious that none of them want to be there this morning, but she has a shoot with a local magazine. Nuka-Girl doesn’t have time for a sleep-in.

‘You ever think about getting work done?’

Betsy’s eyes snap open at the sound of the stylist’s voice. She’s looking at her, in the mirror; this is the first attempt she’s made at chit chat all morning.

‘Excuse me?’

The stylist’s expression is bordering on smug as she shifts her weight from one hip to the other, using the handle of a comb to point at Betsy’s reflection.

‘You could probably pass for thirty, with a little work.’

Betsy feels heat rush to her cheeks, her body betraying her. She hates it — hates letting it show that the words have gotten to her. Worse things have been said over the years, and by greater people; time was, she never would have stood for it.

‘I’m thirty-two,’ she snaps.

‘Sure.’

The stylist resumes her task, the teeth of her comb gliding through Betsy’s hair. They don’t say any more after that, and when Betsy’s look is done the woman leaves without a word.

The shoot is outdoors, following some of the city’s landmarks. The magazine wants to put a Boston spin on Nuka-Girl — to drive home the local connection. Betsy neglects to remind them that she's lived in Los Angeles half her life.

It’s late October: cold and brisk. Between shots they let her wrap up in a fluffy bathrobe but other than that, she has to brave the elements. She makes it back to the motel at three, long enough to take a quick nap, before a car arrives to take her to Nuka-World to prep for tomorrow.

She feels like a spare part at the bottling factory. An assistant takes her around the plant, pointing out the various places she’ll have meet and greets with the public. All the while they have to dodge plant employees, event staff and company reps alike as they bustle about putting the finishing touches on the place.

‘They’re filling the river with Quantum,’ the assistant tells her, dropping his voice conspiratorially. ‘I heard it’s gonna glow so bright you could see it from the moon!’

He's a sweet kid; he asks her all about her role as Nuka-Girl, and seems genuinely interested to learn she grew up in Boston. She wonders how new he is to the job — how long it'll be before he loses that shiny glister of eagerness. 

He leads her to the outside of the plant, to where she’ll have her big entrance to the public. She can see the river now — the one they plan to fill with their new luminous blue soda. For now, it flows with the fizzy, amber-brown sheen of Nuka-Cola. 

Upwind of them, two of the plant’s employees share a cigarette. The smell lingers in her nostrils, rich and familiar.

‘You smoke?’ the assistant asks.

He must have caught her looking; when her eyes turn to him he’s doing the classic pocket pat-down, searching with his hand for wherever he must have a box squirreled away.

She shakes her head.

‘Not for a while now.’

She expects him to ask if she minds if he has one, but he doesn’t; instead he lifts his clipboard and casts a glance over it.

‘They’ll send a car for you in the morning, of course,’ he says. She watches him nod as he mentally checks off items on his itinerary. ‘Hair and makeup first off, bright and early at six.’

‘Got it,’ she replies. ‘Should all be wrapped up, what? Around two?’

He nods.

‘You fly back tomorrow night, don’t you?’ he says. ‘There’s a cheese and wine reception after everything, at six. You should swing by if you have time.’

‘For wine? Always.’

He flashes a polite smile, then his eyes are back on his clipboard. He hums to himself absently while he thinks and she waits, tapping the toe of her sneaker idly.

‘I think that’s it,’ he says. ‘My number is with the info sheet you were given at the start, if you have any questions.’

Another day, another lifetime, she might have asked — teasing — if that was all the number was good for. A decade ago, five years even, she might have had a chance. Maybe she still would, if she were looking; Nuka-Girl has a certain cachet, even amongst the younger crowd.

‘Thanks,’ she says. The safer, neutral route. ‘You’ve been so helpful already.’

His teeth all but glimmer as he grins. She decides he’s not exactly handsome — he has a button nose, and his jaw is a little too round to be dashing — but his smile lights up his whole face. She wonders who’s waiting for him back home, if somebody will have dinner ready for him on the table when he gets in the door.

‘Not a problem, Ms. Finch,’ he says proudly. ‘I live to serve.’

‘Please. Call me Betsy.’

* * *

She’s got her old stylist back, the one from earlier in the week — the one with the red hair that had given her pause. Amanda Hills, Betsy recalls. She’s pleased; she got along well with her.

Amanda fusses over her hair, brushing a strand this way and that, never entirely pleased. She gives up eventually, swiveling Betsy’s chair around so she can see for herself.

‘It looks… different,’ Betsy remarks. She can’t quite put her finger on it.

‘It’s different on camera,’ Amanda explains. She plucks at the offending strand of hair once more, finally letting it fall where it will. ‘You’ll be face to face with everybody. It’ll look funny if we do it as heavy as usual.’

Betsy appraises her features, taking in the words. She supposes it makes sense; she’ll leave it to the expert.

There’s a knock at the door; Amanda steps away and opens it. There’s a kid on the other side, probably no older than her teens, with her hair scooped up into a high ponytail atop her head.

‘Scuse me, Ma’am,’ the kid says. She peeps around the Amanda’s shoulders, her cheeks flushing when her eyes meet Betsy’s in the mirror. ‘There’s a call for Nuka-Girl.’

Amanda looks exasperated. Betsy knows this is nothing new in their industry — interruptions come all the time, particularly at the most inopportune of moments.

‘Fine. We’re about done, anyway.’

As Betsy moves to leave, Amanda takes her gently by the arm. Her face is all mock-stern, although there’s an earnestness there that can’t be ignored.

‘Good news or bad, don’t you dare cry,’ she says. ‘I’m not redoing your makeup if you smudge it.’

She wishes Betsy good luck before waving her away; the words ring in Betsy ears, and she takes them to heart as the kid leads her through unfamiliar hallways to their eventual destination.

The kid talks along the way — shy, in a manner that makes her fill every moment with nervous chatter. She has a thick local accent, but already she’s starting to lose the broadness of it. Product of being around people in the business, Betsy supposes. She wonders if she was a temporary hire, or if she answers to the company.

‘I really am sorry for the interruption,’ the girl says, her ponytail bobbing as she walks. ‘Your agent said she needed to talk to you right away.

‘My agent?’

Betsy’s momentarily stumped — her agent is a heavyset man in his fifties — until it dawns on her that it’s probably Frankie. Worry washes over her with a wave of nausea; she can’t help but feel that something is wrong.

‘Did she say what it was?’

The kid shakes her head.

‘Uh-uh.’

The telephone sits in an empty office, likely set aside for privacy. Betsy thanks the girl with a smile and, once she’s gone, lifts the receiver.

‘Frankie?’

‘Oh, good! I thought they’d never put me through.’

She doesn’t sound upset, at least; Betsy still can’t help but worry.

‘What’s wrong? They said you were my agent.’

Frankie’s breathy laugh eats away at the edges of Betsy’s anxiety. She can picture Frankie on the other end of the line, eyes crinkling at the corners.

‘They said you were busy. I improvised.’

With a glance at the door, Betsy perches herself on the edge of the desk. She knows they need to run through the itinerary with her again before the day starts, but she doesn’t care; she’s glad to hear Frankie’s voice.

‘Everything is okay though, right?’ she says, uncertainly. ‘Nothing happened?’

There’s a sigh, and Betsy thinks — _There it is._

‘Nothing happened.’

Still, there’s a hitch to her voice. Betsy waits.

‘I don’t know,’ Frankie adds. ‘It’s silly. I guess I just got thinking about what I’d do if anything happened to you while you were away.’

‘ _Frankie…_ ’

‘I’m sorry,’ Frankie says, with a little laugh. It’s not entirely convincing. ‘You just sounded so upset after your dream the other night. I don’t know. Ignore me.’

‘My flight’s tonight,’ Betsy replies. It still seems so far away. ‘Nothing to worry about, okay? Promise.’

‘I should let you get back to it. Have fun today.’

Betsy can’t help but roll her eyes. Her feet are already aching in anticipation of all the standing around in heels she’ll have to do.

‘I love you, babe.’

‘I love you too, Bets.’

Amanda is gone when Betsy gets back; the assistant from the day before is there instead. He seems on edge — he has a pen in his grasp that he can’t seem to stop clicking. Betsy spies the clipboard in his other hand, ready to start the day.

‘Oh, good!’ he exclaims.

He doesn’t wait for her to greet him; just shuffles his things and uses a hand to gently steer her out of the room.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘My agent—’

He waves her off with a smile and they walk, double-time, through the plant. She’s glad he knows his way around; she’s already lost, try as she might to pick apart the seemingly identical hallways.

‘You ready?’

They’re at the exit — over the omnipresent hum of the plant, she can hear voices outside. With a little thrill, she wonders how many of the people out there came just for Nuka-Girl — for _her_.

She gives a little nod, and she has just enough time to affix a shiny, bright smile on her face before the door opens.

At some point since Betsy stumbled bleary-eyed into the car this morning, the sun has risen to light up the world. The sky is an uncanny blue, the clouds few and far between; for how late it is in the year, there’s still warmth in the air.

Even as Betsy drags her eyes down from the heavens to the crowds waiting for her, she knows it’s going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
